Raindrop
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: Chopin's serene theme of Prelude's opus twenty-eight, number nineteen wafts through the house. For a time, there is a quiet sort of peace in the melody. Gold traces the rim of his teacup, waiting. Always waiting. Gold/Belle, drabble.


**Raindrop**

**You must read this while listening to Chopin's Prelude, opus 28, number fifteen. You can find it on Youtube here www . youtube . com / watch ?v=6gV9gUeFHIw. Do it. Trust me. **

**To my dedicated beta Old Romantic, who turned this out in like, twenty minutes. She's good, guys. Real good. (****Yeah, I intentionally used real.)**

**-XXX-**

Chopin's serene theme of opus twenty-eight, number nineteen wafts through the house. For a time, there is a quiet sort of peace in the melody. Gold traces the rim of his teacup, waiting. Always waiting.

There.

The sudden slash of hard, loud, harsh notes startles the room at large. It cuts. It burns. The desperation of loss saturates the walls. Every stroke of ivory keys serves as a testament to pain-bitter fear and reluctant regret. The worst flavor.

They say at the time, the composer had been dying. Sitting at his piano, ill and perhaps maddened by fever, he was struck by a horrifying dream of his own death; a drowning. Being an artist, the vision and its accompanying emotions worked to create this part of the prelude. The ever-changing storm. The patters of down falling water, of crystal drops making contact with the earth below, of a spring shower. Something beautiful and wild and…and….unexpected. _Raindrop. _

Chopin had said it _personified _the rain, rather than imitated it. It was a…translation, he insisted. Of nature. If such a thing were possible.

Gold wasn't so sure. Not until he'd heard it for himself.

Recordings were often bland. One thing he loved of this world were the cassettes, then the CDs, and the DVDs. To be able to simply have a concert, right at your fingertips….but no matter who was playing, how many were playing, they could not capture the essences of the song. Oftentimes its simplicity was lost or overlooked, which utterly destroyed the entire purpose. Even live, he has been disappointed. To be able to play, truly _play _this opus, one needed the capacity for an immense depth of feeling. And an ability to empathize with the rush of emotion the dying composer was experiencing at the time of the piece's composition.

There was only ever one person he'd heard who could so effortlessly catch that depth. Someone who could personify the piece with the lightest of touches, effectively caressing the piano, the keys, lacquered wood and all. With this artist, the raindroplets of A-flats and C-minors came to life. He can practically hear the beads of water pelt the rooftops, patter the walkway, dance across the frosted windows.

"Thank you, my dear," he finds himself breathing after the final notes peter out, the strike of the last key fading into nothingness and memory. "That was…."

The pianist turns slightly in the bench, offering a lovely profile. Pert nose, high cheekbones, smooth, youthful brow. Skin that had once been gaunt and pale has some returned glow and colour; her soft cheeks have the faintest blush of pink. The eyes are lighter than before-a crystalline blue, rather than the periwinkle of his memory. And now the hair is darker (a result, he suspects, of her absence from the outdoors). But the whole-the person, the enigma that is-is still.

He doesn't finish the statement. The pianist does not soften, retaining her rigid posture, as if waiting.

"Thank you," she finally says.

Gold cannot respond. So, they sit in silence-he staring at his tea cup, eyeing the dregs, turning the cup in his hands, her gaze resting on the keys, polished from their consistent use - until a very, very soft sound breaks the reverie. It starts gently, like fingers skirting silk. Then, the noise increases to a distinct rhythm. The occupants' heads rise, gaze snapping to the leaded windows. Through the wavy and bubbled glass, the ripple of rain is unmistakable. Definite. _Rain. _

"It would appear you've summoned the spring showers, my dear," he remarks, amusement bittersweet.

The pianist tugs the hem of her sweatshirt. "Yes. So it would seem."

-**XXX-**

**Please review! It's a one-shot, but I have several others here if you want a "sequel." Comments, questions, etc, are appreciated! **

**Thanks for the support! **


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